


Dark Eyes 1

by helens78



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-16
Updated: 2003-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi pounces Qui after a night of clubbing. From Qui's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Eyes 1

He's 20 standard years old now, and I shouldn't be waiting up for him. I don't _need_ to wait up for him; he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. And it's not that I'm worried about him; I know he's fine, wherever he is.

Still...

He doesn't usually let me see him go. I only caught a glimpse of him tonight because I was home early from a meeting with Mace. I know he worries about what I'll think if I see him this way, and probably for good reason. Maybe not the reason he suspects, but... for good reason.

Obi-Wan knows that Xan went clubbing frequently. He asked about it once, and I told him. I don't know where Xan went -- he never said. I don't know what he did -- I never asked. He went out in leather, in black, with a look on his face that telegraphed his intentions to the world.

Obi-Wan offered to tell me where he was going, what he was doing, as if I can't tell the difference between my former apprentice and my current one. I declined his offer. I've seen Obi-Wan leave here in leather before, but it doesn't bring back memories; it doesn't mean I disapprove. He mistakes the expression on my face, I think, for worry about what he'll do, what goes on out there. I've done nothing to correct that impression, because the alternative is to admit that what I worry about is me. My own restraint, my self-control. He is so beautiful in black...

We had almost collided as I returned home; he was just leaving. It was obvious where he was going; he wore black leather pants and well-broken-in black leather boots -- boots with heels that made him significantly taller than I'm used to. His shirt was soft, black, short-sleeved, and it fastened with a row of snaps up the front. The top three snaps were left unfastened, and there was more than a hint of reddish brown hair visible under dark folds of material. His eyes were darkened with a line of black kohl, and he wore a silver chain on his right wrist. It looked like a sign of ownership, someone else's ownership. And just for a moment, I wanted to take hold of his braid and remind him who his master was...

I shook that feeling loose and asked, stupidly, as it was the only thing I could think of, if he was going out tonight. He looked away and nodded, saying "Yes, master," and his eyes came back up to mine to look for the inevitable signs of disapproval. There were none there, I hope, though my expression was more guarded than he was expecting. I told him to be careful -- I couldn't resist. I can't quite shake the urge to want to protect him, even though I know full well that he's an adult now, and has protected me on many occasions.

He grinned at me. "I'm always careful," he said. And then he was gone.

I don't allow myself to think about where he's going... who he's having. It drives me mad to think that once it was I who had him in that way... that I took leave of my senses and allowed myself to believe we could manage to be lovers as well as master and apprentice. Fool! What could I have been thinking?

It drives me madder still to remember the two nights that I've been unable to resist his advances. Force, that night with T'nell, perhaps I can attribute that to drink and nostalgia and a burning desire to recapture my own youth. But the night in the fresher was only six weeks ago. Sixty days, and I still find myself reliving it more nights than not before I fall asleep. On those nights, I lie in bed, remembering the smell of the soap on his skin, the way the slickness felt under my hands and the way he stood still while I took him into my mouth. On nights when I can't hold back the memories, I curve my hand around my cock, thinking of how hot his skin was against mine, how the water needled into us and set us on fire. When the memories surround me, and I remember how I wanted to bury myself inside him, I have to bite down on my wrist to keep from crying out, and I have to clamp down hard on my shields as I come. I never want him to know how much that night still haunts me.

I'd probably be in bed now, touching myself and remembering, if I hadn't seen him leave tonight. He looked so startled, at first, and then... that grin he gave me, and his eyes... so grey... like they always were when he was anticipating a night of good, hard fucking...

I shouldn't be waiting up for him. He knows where home is. He'll find his way back here.

Oh, Force, I wish I could have gone after him. I'm losing myself to that fantasy now: the fantasy of changing into civilian clothes of my own, perhaps the dark blue silk that he once said made my eyes look like the oceans of Alderaan. I fantasize about following him through the crowds in the seedier part of Coruscant, making my way into whichever club he's picked out tonight. I imagine watching him order a drink, and the way he looks when he's pleasantly buzzed, but not impaired, not yet. I picture him moving onto the dance floor, eyes fixed on someone. I don't know who, because my eyes and thoughts are on him alone. I feel the brush of other bodies as I pass through the crowd, approaching him, and I know he senses me as I come closer, pressing my front to his back as he dances, wrapping my arms around his waist, biting his earlobe...

I have to stop. And I don't just mean the fantasy. I have to stop thinking about him this way.

And I don't want to.

* * *

 

I take a long, hot shower, letting the water fall over me and reliving every instant of that night six weeks ago. I remember, with some faint embarrassment, how much I'd needed that release, and how I'd felt when he surprised me by following me into the fresher. I remember how he'd looked when he took his clothes off and walked into the shower: challenge written all over his face, silently asking why I hadn't come to him, when it was so clear that I needed this. I was unable to offer a response other than the one my body demanded, and so I went to my knees before him, slicking soap over him with my hands and then taking him into my mouth and, oh, Force...

The shower tonight is hot, but not as hot as it was then. I rub the soap over myself and begin moving my hand back and forth. My erection is almost painfully hard. I remember the kohl around his eyes tonight, and wonder who he's having right now. This minute. Someone tall, with dark skin, perhaps, with sweat that smells faintly of cinnamon? Someone young, as young as he is, someone who can go all night and barely needs to come up for air? Is he driving into someone from behind, pressing him against the wall? Is someone taking him, hands pinning his above his head? Is he leaning casually against the wall, watching the people around him, while some beautiful young thing opens his mouth and swallows that beautiful cock, the way I did, here, in the shower...

I grunt, softly, stifling the sound automatically thanks to years of silent masturbation. I remember missions when one or both of us was not so quiet, and the way we'd both pretended not to notice. It had been hard pretending not to notice after I'd had him; I wanted, so badly, for the hand around his cock to be mine...

I clean myself up, turn off the water, and dry off. The rough surface of the towel is pleasant against my skin, and I think about how many times I showered with Obi-Wan in those six months we allowed ourselves the pleasure of one another's bodies... how he loved drying me off, rubbing me with these thick towels, drying and combing my hair...

I sigh. I'm sure he's having fun, wherever he is, and I hope he's safe. I dry my own hair, comb it myself, and dress in a light tunic and sleep pants. Perhaps I'll have some tea and relax with a book.

I shouldn't be waiting up. I'm _not_ waiting up. I'm just... not ready to go to sleep yet.

* * *

I give a quick glance to the chronometer on my datapad when the doors swish open and Obi-Wan walks in. It's early, much earlier than I was expecting him home. And he does not look like someone who's been well-fucked. This surprises me, but I choose not to comment and resist the urge to cock an eyebrow at him. He looks over at me, gaze sweeping over my somewhat inelegant pose. The couch isn't quite long enough for me, so I'm sprawled with my back against one arm and my legs hanging over the other. He notices my datapad, the tea, and the corner of his mouth quirks.

"Some late reading?" he asks. "Or were you waiting up for me?"

"Should I have been?" I keep the tone of my voice light, not without effort. "I have every confidence in your ability to get in and out of any trouble you desire, Padawan. How was your evening?"

He pauses, and his eyes go unfocused, as if he's remembering something. Perhaps my first impression was off somewhat; perhaps he found something so mind-blowing -- well, not mind, I imagine -- that he didn't need to stay out later.

I find this thought disturbing, somehow, and push it aside.

"It was..." he begins. His eyes snap back to focus on me, and they rest on my hair, which I left loose tonight after my shower. I can almost see a ghost image of him coming over and straddling me while he buries his hands in my hair and brings my lips to his...

I think I was right the first time: he didn't find what he was looking for tonight.

I have to sit up, or the effect he's having on me will be far too obvious for my taste. I shift, hoping the folds of cloth will cover what he's doing to me. I drop my datapad on the table, and it clatters against my teacup. I look over to be sure it hasn't spilled. My thoughts are rushing back to that first night, when I was on this couch and he sat down, naked, on the table in front of me. I'd had tea then, too, and I had, for a moment, been afraid that it would spill. He'd been quick enough to catch my one look at it before my eyes weren't seeing anything at all. After he'd driven me nearly to tears with pleasure, he'd turned back to that teacup. Finding the tea still warm, he took a drink from it and started all over again, making me cry out until my throat was hoarse...

_Stop,_ I tell myself. I am able to pull myself out of my memories, but I can still feel him on my skin, and I can still taste the tea from when he came up and kissed me...

"Are you all right?" I ask. "I didn't expect you home so soon."

"I didn't, either," he tells me. The black around his eyes is smudged, and I desperately want to run my thumb over it, smudge it more before washing it from him. I bite the inside of one cheek. He looks...

He looks beautiful, but something is weighing on his mind, and I don't know what it is. A bad trick? A slow night? There's something in his eyes I don't recognize, and I want to be able to comfort him. Force, why couldn't he have stayed home tonight?

"I'll be fine. There's nothing wrong. I just didn't feel like being out anymore."

The side of me that wants to comfort him wars with the side that does not, under any circumstances, want to know what he does in the clubs. The responsible side wins. "Is there anything I can do? Do you want to talk about it?"

He takes several steps closer to me, and sits down on the table. "There's something you can do for me, yes," he says. "But no, I don't want to talk..."

I have a full three seconds to move, to get up, draw away from him. His moves aren't sudden, aren't surprising in the least. I mean to move, mean to get off the couch, to collect my datapad and go to sleep.

But there he is, in front of me, and oh, Force, he's so beautiful in black...

I open my mouth to say something, even though I don't know what, and he presses his index finger against my lips. He hisses, softly.

"No, don't say anything. Just feel. Close your eyes."

What am I doing? Have I gone mad again? I have to move. I have to get up. I have to...

I shiver, and my eyes close. It was not my intention to obey him, but I do so anyway, and my breathing begins to quicken. It's been six weeks since he touched me this way, and I wonder if it's kept him up as many nights as it has for me.

His finger moves, and I can sense the movement in the air around me as he leans forward. I don't move back, don't turn away. I feel the gentle pressure of his lips on mine, and try to hold on to my shields, my composure. I try not to react. I promised myself this wasn't going to happen again. I promised us both.

But his mouth is so gentle, and when his hands come up to tangle in my hair, I moan. And then I'm kissing him back, my arms wrapping around his waist, pulling him up and onto me, leaning back against the back of the couch. He shifts, straddling my lap, and laughs softly against my lips. I loosen my grip, just a bit, but my hands stroke his back, feel his warmth through the material. Snaps down the front. All I'd have to do is pull...

"Can you imagine how much I need this?" he whispers. "I need you. Are you going to try to pretend you don't want me?"

My eyes are still closed, and our faces are so near each other that I can feel the soft rush of his breath on my cheek. I don't even realize that I'm shaking my head no, that I'm admitting I want him, until I feel the way he reacts to my beard brushing over his face. He always did like that...

He pulls away, and stands in front of me. "Show me," he tells me.

I open my eyes. His posture is relaxed, but insistent, his hips canted slightly forward to make it clear what he wants from me. I just stare, for a moment, still shocked after all this time that someone as young and beautiful as he is wants someone like me. I'm very aware that as he's entering the prime of his life, I am leaving mine, and sometimes it makes me feel very old. He smiles, gently, seeming to know what I'm feeling. He always does. He stretches out a hand, cups my face in his palm, and I nuzzle into that hand, kissing the inside of his wrist and licking down to his fingertips, sucking each one into my mouth and leaving gentle nips on the pads of his fingers.

I can't think, am so blinded by desire that I can barely breathe. There are so many reasons not to do this that I couldn't begin to count them. I have no excuse for my behavior. All I can tell myself is that he needs me, and I don't know how to say no to him. And, Force, I hope I never learn.

I am lost now, eyes closing, taking his fingers into my mouth and sucking on them, knowing he wants my mouth elsewhere doing just this. I can taste the drink that spilled over his fingers in the bar -- an Alderaani brandy. The particular brand of it escapes me for the time being, because the flavor has blended so perfectly with the taste of his skin. His left hand comes up, fingers threading through my hair. I am lost, and I don't want to be found.

"Look at me," he demands. I don't want to look up, don't know if I can face what I'm doing. He pulls, insistently, on my hair, and I lean into it, the feel of it making my entire body come alive. A memory flashes to the surface of my mind: my talented young lover once made me come just by pulling on my hair and whispering what he was going to have me do to him when he was through with me. I begin to tremble.

"Look at me," he repeats, voice softer, less urgent, more seductive. I have to bite my lip to focus enough to stop trembling and open my eyes for him.

He trails those fingertips I've just been making love to over my face, easing up a bit on my hair. "You're so beautiful," he tells me, and my eyes close again, but only briefly. Me, beautiful? He's the most beautiful person I've ever laid eyes on. I can't look at him without wanting him. And he's telling me _I'm_ beautiful?

"Show me how much you want me," he whispers. He uncurls his hand and lets my hair slip through his fingers. I look up at him, up at his eyes, his smudged eyeliner. He's not smiling -- his expression is completely focused, controlled, and he's waiting for me to...

Oh, _Force,_ I want this. I unfasten his leather pants and slip my hand into them, feeling silk tight against his erection. I tug the pants and silk down over his hips, and he lets out a satisfied little sigh as his erection comes free, beautiful and hard and ready for me. My sigh echoes his. How I managed to go sixty days without having him is beyond me. I raise both hands to his cock and stroke him, gently at first, then a little harder, sitting back so I can see the expression on his face change. There's only a hint of change -- not something anyone but me would notice. I can see the urgency in him, even though he's not moving, not insisting, is clearly meaning for me to take my time with this. I lean forward again, and I slide my hand to the base of his cock, leaving room for me to take him in my mouth.

//Yes. Oh, that's so good. Just like that.// I can hear him in my mind, and now both hands are buried in my hair as his hips begin to move, gently, pushing me to take more as I suck on him and my hand moves, squeezes, twists just a bit. My other hand cups his testicles, and he lets out a soft breath, a murmur of "yes... good..." as I taste him. I linger on the sensitive spot below the head of his cock, licking with the rough side of my tongue and then following with long, slow kisses, sucking, rubbing my lips over that same spot, and he moans for me. It's the most erotic sound I've ever heard. I can't believe how much I want this. My mouth opens wide for him, and he moves harder against me, setting the pace for me. I let my hand drop so he's free to slide in and out of my mouth with his own rhythm, to the depth he needs. My hands are running over his hips now, squeezing the tight muscles there, and then going back over his ass. Force, I want to be behind him, having him, fucking him for all I'm worth...

Lost in the moment, I can't tell what he's whispering up above me. I don't know what it was he couldn't find at the clubs tonight, and I don't care. A part of me, a very small part that I'd like to keep hidden from myself, is grateful. I wanted this _so_ much...

He brushes against my shields, and I put away my feelings for him before letting him in. He can feel how much I love having my mouth on him, how much it turns me on to have his hands urging me on, how I love the idea of him fucking my mouth like this. I love the way his hands slide through my hair, urging me forward, how his hips move him in and out of my mouth, and how he pushes me for more when I want to stop to tease him...

//Want you.// I flood him with images that are a mixture of memory and fantasy, imagine the way he'd look with his ankles around my shoulders, with me pressing into him and pinning his arms down to the mattress...

He pulls back, panting now. I let him slip free of my mouth, and look up. He trails a finger down the center of my face, over my nose and down to my lips. I flick out my tongue and try to begin licking, but he pulls back from that as well.

"Take me to bed," he orders, and I stand up to lead him to my room.

He follows, and before I can turn back to face him, he's pressed up against my back, hands roaming over my chest before they go under the hem of my shirt and touch bare flesh. His hands are warm, and for the first few seconds it's as if I can feel them everywhere at once. I lean back against him. My heads goes back as I close my eyes and moan in ecstasy. His hands go lower, sliding into my sleep pants to find me ready for him. He laughs and leans up to kiss my neck.

"How long has it been, Qui? How long since you've admitted to yourself that you want this? Need this?"

_Minutes,_ I think. "I don't know," I tell him.

"Poodoo," he replies succinctly, and pulls his hands off me. I turn around to face him. "How long has it been since you touched yourself and thought of me?" I color slightly. He catches it. "That recently?" He smirks. He circles me, evaluating the state of my thoughts as he goes. "This week?" he asks, grin nearly wolfish. "Today?" He leans close to me and puts his lips against my ear. _"Tonight?"_

I jerk, but he's ready for the movement, and he wraps an arm around my waist, stopping any thoughts I could have had about moving. He presses himself close to me, and I can feel his erection on my thigh. His lips are near my right ear, and he teases my earlobe for a moment before asking, "What were you thinking about tonight?"

"The night..." My voice breaks, and his other arm reaches up to stroke my back, fingertips tracing a line up my spine and back down again. It almost makes me reach for him, but I stop myself. Too fast. I can't keep up. "The fresher," I finish.

"Oh, yes..." His voice is a soft hiss at my ear. "I remember it, too, Qui. The way you couldn't speak, because you were too full of need to do anything but growl like an animal? The way you held me down and sucked the skin off me while I screamed? Do you remember _that_?"

Force, he's exaggerating, he has to be. I remember how badly I needed it, how it was all I could do to hold back -- I know what can happen when I lose control, and I was careful not to -- oh, Force. I remember the vivid red mark on his neck, the one he hid from everyone else, but not from me, not when we were alone. He didn't say anything about it, didn't so much as mention it, but it was there. And I'd tried to pretend I wasn't the one who gave it to him. It took nearly a week to heal. He could have healed it sooner, if he'd wanted, but he didn't. I couldn't tell if it was supposed to be punishment or tribute.

Now, I suspect the latter.

"You don't have to admit it," he whispers. "It was good, you know, so good I couldn't quite get it out of my mind, no matter how many people I fucked. There's really no substitute for you. Who else do you think I could trust the way I trust you?"

My focus snaps out of fantasy and back to reality. And the reality is that he's my apprentice. My student. He does need to trust me, and there's no way for me to know, never has been, if this was truly what he would have chosen without any influence from me at all. For seven years, he's tried to live up to all the things I require of him, tried to live up to all the things he thinks I want from him. And then this...

"Stop that." His hand takes hold of my hair and pulls again to get my attention, and I sense irritation. "You did _not_ take advantage of me. You have _never_ used your influence to force me into anything I didn't already want." He releases me and steps back. His pants are still unfastened, he's still hard, and I can't tell myself I don't want him. He knows that.

"I want you," he tells me, hand reaching up to stroke my cheek. "There doesn't have to be any deeper meaning in it than that. You don't have to think about your influence on me, or what we're doing together, or why I want this so badly. Just touch me..." He takes my hand and wraps it around his cock, and I'm lost all over again. "Touch me," he whispers, eyes losing their focus as I stroke him.

The bed is only a few steps away, and I lead him to it. I take off his boots, his pants, and indulge myself by ripping open his shirt. He laughs at me. When he's undressed, I kiss him. I taste brandy. An odd choice for him; he prefers stronger things. It tastes good on him, though, and I stop myself before I can wonder who else might have tasted him tonight.

"No one," he whispers. "Not tonight."

The surprise on my face must be nearly comical, but he isn't smiling. "I need this," he says. "Let me undress you."

I sit down next to him and let him pull my tunic off. He leans me back onto the bed and tugs my sleep pants over my hips and off, leaving a few gentle kisses -- followed by a few much-less-gentle kisses -- on my cock, as he goes. He smiles, and pulls me fully up onto the bed, lying down on top of me. The feel of all that warm skin makes my eyes close while I groan. He laughs. "Which of us needs this more tonight, do you think?"

He's asking me to think, with that gorgeous young body pressed to mine? He expects too much from his master.

"Maybe it's me, tonight," he tells me. "Lie still, Qui. Let me have you."

He lowers his mouth to my neck, sucking gently on the skin there before moving lower, to the hollow just above my collarbone. His lips move to the center of my throat, and then begin working their way down my body. He caresses me, hands gliding up and down my arms, moving up to my shoulders and gently massaging for a moment. His hands move down my chest, and his fingertips brush my nipples, making me throw my head back into the pillows, gasping. He smiles.

"Should I do that again?"

"Oh, please..." I don't know exactly what I'm begging for, but I am doing just that: begging for it. I feel him move back up my body so he can apply lips and tongue to my nipples, one at a time. I see stars. I thrust my hips up against him, rubbing my cock against his body, and one of his hands goes between our bodies to claim it. I could pass out from pleasure if he keeps this up. Oh, Force.

He moves lower again, and licks a path down my chest, over my stomach, and lower still. I am nearly weeping by the time he takes my cock into his mouth, stroking the base with one hand while his tongue paints circles over me. I clutch at the blankets as he lays claim to me. Yes, my Obi-Wan: I'm yours. Tonight, at least, I'm yours, and I won't deny it, can't possibly deny it. Let the morning come as it will; this is all I want to feel tonight.

"Turn over," he whispers, and I shiver, but obey. He licks gently at the inside of my thighs before moving up, just a bit, just to... _oh_. Oh, he's so good at this... he has me come up slightly, on hands and knees, to improve his angle. I feel his thumbs coming up to help open me for him, and bite my lip against the pleas that want to burst from me. His incredibly talented tongue begins probing me, stroking into me, and I'm so hard I can't stand it. He's so good at this, at sensing when I need him to be gentle, knowing when I want him to fuck me with his tongue until his jaw aches from the effort. Just now it's the latter, and now I am begging, unable to form coherent words, just moaning, pleading, pushing back against him for more. Oh, fuck, more -- please...

He pulls away, and I want to scream in frustration. Then I notice the tube of lubricant on my nightstand flying into his hand, and turn back to give him a mock reproving look. He doesn't even look at me, but he delivers a loud smack to my ass as he opens up the lubricant. "Don't give me that look," he tells me. "Unless you don't _want_ me to fuck you...?"

The look immediately drops from my face, and he laughs at me. "Good."

His fingers glide into me, and within moments I'm squirming, panting again, begging him to fuck me in truly inelegant fashion. He withdraws his fingers, applies lube to himself, and then gently, oh, Force, almost too gently, pushes inside me.

A brush against my shields reminds me to let him in, and I do so, letting him feel exactly what it's like to be a Jedi Master driven nearly to tears with ecstasy by a brilliant, amazingly sexy young Padawan. In return, I feel a searing amount of desire, and recognize that not all of it is for me. But he is with me now, and the pleasure he takes in my body is all for me, all mine and his. I let him touch me while he strokes into me, feeling his pleasure build up as he fucks me. Soon I'm not the only one panting, nearly in tears from the joy of it. He lets go of my cock and holds onto my hips, losing control and slamming into me hard as his pleasure overtakes him and he comes inside me. A long, soft, moan... a few slightly raspy breaths... and he collapses, pushing me into the bed. I laugh, but only a bit. Force, he's beautiful.

"Better?" I ask him.

"A little," he tells me. He rolls off me, and lies down beside me, on his stomach. "I'll feel a great deal better when you fuck me."

I am on him in an instant, finding the lubricant among the covers and barely managing to prepare him before sheathing myself in his body. He gasps, then nods enthusiastically. "That's it... hard... just like that... oh, _fuck_, you feel good."

I am mad with lust by now, fucking him with little control and less finesse. His moans, though, encourage me to take him this way, hard, focused only on my own pleasure and need. He feels my desperation in the mingling of our thoughts, and I sense the defiant satisfaction in him that comes from knowing he can bring me to this.

When I finally come for him, I let out a yell that will probably embarrass me to remember later. Obi-Wan shivers under me, and lets out a soft "oof" when I fall on him. We both laugh.

"How do you feel now?" I ask.

"Like I could use a shower." He pushes his hips back against me. "A very hot shower."

"Force, you're insatiable," I tease, rolling off him.

"You bring out the best in me." He turns over and drops a kiss on the tip of my nose. "Come with me and tell me what you were thinking about earlier, while you were touching yourself and thinking of me..."

I let him lead me into the fresher. He's still hard, and I'm more than willing to recreate the last night we were here, but he has other things in mind. We step into the shower together, and he washes me with his hands, gently. I take the soap from him, and he moves so his back is against my front and his front is to the spray.

"Now touch me," he whispers, "and tell me what you were thinking about tonight..."

My hand around him moves as it did when it was my hand around me. I lower my head so my lips are against his ear and begin talking.

"I was here, in the shower, earlier tonight. You'd gone out, and I thought about how hot you looked in leather. How I would have liked to rip your shirt open and have you myself. I even thought about following you out tonight..."

"Oh?"

"...because I would have loved seeing you dance, and I would have loved being the one who took you to a quiet corner and fucked you senseless."

"Aaahh."

"Should I continue?"

"Yes, but... slower..."

He drapes his body across mine, going limp in my arms as I touch him. My free hand circles his chest, making sure he doesn't stumble or slide anywhere. I go on, but keep my movements slow, as he asked.

"Then I remembered how much I'd needed you the night you came to me in the fresher. I thought about how you looked at me when you stripped and joined me in the shower..."

"And how was that?"

"As if you were daring me to tell you I didn't want you. Asking me why I hadn't come to you."

"I did wonder."

"And I thought about going to my knees in front of you, and how good it felt to have you in my mouth after..."

"...yes..."

"Oh, Force, Obi-Wan..."

"...and there was more? Tell me..."

"I thought about the black around your eyes, and then..." I almost can't say it. "...and then I thought about who you might be having."

"And who did you imagine?"

"A few different men. Someone tall, as tall as me, with dark skin..."

"...shaved head, a thin goatee, muscular, with a cock nearly as long as my forearm..." He joins my fantasy and moans as I pick up the pace and continue.

"...sweat that smells faintly of cinnamon, he's on your lap, your cock in him..."

"...my head pressed against that hard back, my eyes closed as I rock with him..."

I switch to another image from earlier. "Someone young, your age, who can fuck you all night without needing to come up for air..."

"Red hair, feline eyes that almost glow in the dark. A wet, sloppy blowjob, maybe his first..."

"You're watching the people around you as he sucks you off, wondering who you'll have next..."

"...he's not bad, despite his inexperience, but he'll need practice..."

"...he loves it, and wants more, wants you to come in his mouth..."

"...but I thank him, politely, and move on..."

Another of my fantasy images: "You, taking someone against a wall, driving in hard from behind..."

"Oh, fuck, yes..."

"...both of you closing your eyes and panting..."

"Qui, please, yes... fuck, yes..."

"Or someone driving into you, pinning your hands above your head..."

"...me pinning him against the wall..."

He liked the last image better. I join him there. "Someone with a smirk you wanted to fuck off his face..."

"...raven hair, dark eyes..."

"...crying out for you, begging you to let him come..."

"Oh, _Force_..."

He cries out and comes, and I watch him, amazed that my fantasies affected him this way, more amazed that I shared them at all. I tell myself, most of the time, that I don't want to know who or what he's doing, but the idea of him in the clubs... watching him with others... I can't deny there's a part of me that finds it arousing.

He turns in my arms, and we share a long, soft kiss. He doesn't speak as he cleans up, lets me clean up, and we turn off the water and dry ourselves. The edginess is gone from him, though, and he seems very much at peace. I'm glad I can do that for him. That we can do it for each other. Just for tonight.

He leaves me at the door to my room, and raises my hand to his lips, brushing his lips against my knuckles. "Good night, Qui."

"Good night, Obi-Wan."

I go to bed, pulling the covers with the wet spots off the bed and replacing the lubricant on the nightstand. I don't expect to sleep much tonight.

_-end-_


End file.
